


Miscellanous Pre-AGOT Drabbles

by madaboutasoiaf



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 13,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2053737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madaboutasoiaf/pseuds/madaboutasoiaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of pre-AGOT drabbles originally posted on tumblr. I will add to this as inspiration strikes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wedding Night (Orys/Argella)

He and his _brother_ had waged a war for this. They had killed and burned for the slight to _his_ honour and now he distanced himself. Argella would not have it. He slew her father, yet treated her kindly when her people delivered her chained and naked. She wanted to spit that wine at him but war was war. Her people accepted his conquest, they betrayed their queen to embrace their new lord and live.

He did not have to wed her. She thought on it bitterly. His brother must have given him instructions. Why else might he wed a woman he did not seem to want to touch. He spoke gentle words, offered her pleasantries she did not want and gazed across the room at Visenya Targaryen. The queen looked unhappily at her brother husband dancing with her sister queen but she smiled for Orys.

Argella fumed. She glared at him and he looked uncomfortable. She looked behind them at her own sigil still hanging on the wall. He would take her house words and keep her sigil. She expected more. He was the Targaryen champion. Was she not beautiful? She knew she was, she was desired, wanted, a bride worthy of a King. She watched him look at Visenya again.

_He will not desire another. I will not be made a fool of._

Argella rose when the time came. She frowned when there was no bedding. The Targaryens were new to the Seven but that did not change traditions. She stalked through the castle to her chambers. It took Orys an inordinate amount of time to join her and she greeted him with a goblet of wine in one hand. He did not look at her but he did accept the offered wine.

He turned his back to her as he drank and Argella began removing her dress. It was not easy but she persisted. She stood barefoot in her silken shift, looking at him. He took a deep breath but still did not face her. Argella buried her nerves, holding herself as proudly as she could. _I am a Durrendon._   _I may be a maiden but no man will make me cower._ Her husband must learn that.

“We do not need to do this now my lady,” Orys said quietly. “Mayhaps with time…”

Her anger boiled up inside her. She ran her hands over the flimsy shift, inspecting herself quickly.

“You will look at me my lord,” she said. “You will do me the courtesy of seeing me at least.”

Orys turned slowly. His eyes widened as he saw her and he did not look away. He seemed incapable of tearing his gaze from her breasts and a flush crept up his neck. It gave her courage even if she did tremble a little. _I am not afraid_ she told herself.

“If you desire another you must forget her. I will not have you shame me.”

Orys was by her side before she finished speaking. “No,” he said hoarsely. “There is no other. I only thought…” He trailed off and his fingers traced her collarbone. His eyes flicked up to meet hers. They were blue, not ice blue like hers, a deeper blue. He seemed to be asking a question even though he did not utter a word.

Argella made herself touch his face. It was a handsome face, even if he did have Aegon’s silver gold hair. His lips curved into a smile. Her fingers shook as she removed the shift and she saw him lick his lips.

“I thought you might not wish this yet my lady,” he whispered.

Argella pushed memories of her father from her head. “It is our duty,” she replied.

Orys gathered her in his arms, kissing her more gently than she expected. His touch was light and almost hesitant though it did not remain so. “Our duty,” he repeated. That was one thing that could be said for her new husband. He always did his duty but when he whispered her name into her hair after he took his pleasure she felt triumph mix with her guilt.

It did not look like duty and when he remained in her bed she knew she had won, even if it was a prize she once thought she did not want.


	2. The Return from Dorne (Orys/Argella)

Argella heard the announcement that Orys had finally returned. She tried to compose herself, to disguise her anxiety. She still did not want to show weakness in front of the people in the castle. She stepped out to meet him and froze at the sight. He looked pale, haggard and sickly and her eyes were drawn to the stump where his sword hand once was.

“I thought they might have warned you, my lady.”

Orys sounded strained. They _did_ warn her but seeing it was another matter. She made herself look away from it.

“I have made preparations for your return my lord,” she replied. “You must be very weary.”

The words did not do justice to what she felt at all. Orys did not seem to care though. He walked with her through the castle and to their chambers. The effort seemed to take the last of his strength and he sank onto the bed. He looked up at her.

“Are you repulsed Argella?”

She knew she took too long to answer. His mouth tightened and she moved to sit beside him on the bed.

“I am not repulsed Orys,” she said and her voice shook. “I am angry.”

His eyes closed and he put his arm down as if to balance himself. It was the wrong arm though and he cursed. Argella felt a sudden urge to comfort him but expected he might not take it well. He had a certain pride, as did she.

_The Targaryen champion and look where it has taken him._

“I did not mean to cause you anger,” he finally said in a bitter sounding voice.

Argella stiffened. “It is not you I am angry with.”

It was mostly true.

*

She watched him struggle over the following days. He seemed to do only a little better than the baby at first, trying to relearn how to do everything with his one remaining hand. Argella remembered their first meeting and all the time following it, of his kindness to her and she returned the favour. Orys did not like to be helped. He became frustrated but it was always followed by remorse.

“I do not wish to burden you.”

“You are my husband,” she replied. “It is not a burden.”

With time he learned to use the hand remaining to him. He became stronger once more but it came with a cost. Argella saw him after the raven came with the Targaryen seal and she knew what it meant.

“No,” she said angrily.

“I must go,” he said softly. “You know I must.”

Argella knew no such thing.

“This obsession of his is madness,” she shouted. “He lost a wife, you lost a hand. How much more will he sacrifice for this?”

Orys sighed and Argella stepped forward to embrace him.

“Stay with us Orys. You have given him enough.”

She did not want days, weeks and months of an empty bed. She did not want to raise their children alone. He had fought to take her castle, he had worn down her defences and wed her and she would not lose him now. She had lost too much already on Aegon’s orders. One look told her that her plea fell on deaf ears.

“He is my king. It is my duty.”

_His brother will always come first no matter what he asks._

Argella pulled away from him and gathered her dignity. _He will never be my king._

“He does not deserve your loyalty,” she said scornfully.

She heard his tentative step towards her. “I will return my love.”

She pulled away from his touch, too angry and disappointed to relent. His willingness to do whatever Aegon asked reopened old wounds. _He killed my father_ she reminded herself.

“Mayhaps I do not wish you to return,” she replied.

Orys lingered for a moment longer. “You do not mean that.”

Argella did not answer him. She knew he would leave no matter what she said now and she tried to nurture her anger. She called on her House words to sustain her. _Ours is the Fury._ She lived those words as it fell to her to manage Storm’s End. She took comfort in her children but in doing so her resolve weakened. They were her but they were Orys too.

_Do not let the dragons take any more from me_ she prayed. _They have already taken enough._


	3. The First Storm King (Durran/Elenei)

Elenei watched as her husband and his men toiled day and night to build their castle by the sea. It seemed the war between him and her family would never end. She wept bitter tears each time his efforts were destroyed and the war resumed with renewed vigour. Six times she saw castles rise and six times they fell.

“This time it will stand my love” Durran told her.

_You have said that before. You have been wrong every time._

She kept quiet.

It was difficult to keep hope when those hopes kept getting dashed. It was hard being the watcher, being so passive. Elenei felt the curse of mortality keenly and even more so now as she rested her hands on her stomach. The babe within her moved restlessly. She wished to rage against what was happening, to add her own strength to the fight but she had no strength to lend.

_This time the castle must stand._

The final stones were hammered into place. Durran came to her, his blue eyes sparkling with triumph and his black hair still unkempt. He led her into the castle as the storm raged around them. Elenei almost did not dare to breathe as the construction bore the brunt of the first of what she knew would be many storms.

“It will hold this time” Durran said.

“How do you know?” she asked him.

He smiled at her then, the smile he kept just for her and told her the secrets used in building it. The storms grew more and more ferocious but the castle stood. Elenei heard her parents wailing, screaming their anger but it was to no avail. They did not, however, give in. Even as she birthed a son the winds battered against the castle, the waves joining with them.

Durran held their son proudly in his arms and that was when Elenei knew they had won.

_We have a new family now._

Her husband’s defiance had prevailed. From this day forth he would be known as Durran Godsgrief, the Storm King.


	4. Chapter 4 (Orys/Argella)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr  
> I wrote the majority of this before the recent reading at LonCon. I’m not certain when Orys quit being Hand so if this is wrong it is wrong. Also I am aware Davos might not be the eldest but I needed a name and given GRRM kindly gave us one I'm going with it :)  
> I could not think of a title. I'll add one if one comes to me

Argella tried and failed to curb her son’s enthusiasm when they heard word that men approached the gates. He looked at her, his blue eyes bright with excitement.

“Is it father?”

She gave a quick nod and tried to tidy his messy hair but Davos had no patience for it.

“Will I see a dragon?”

Argella shook her head and Davos looked dismayed. She did not share his disappointment. She still remembered their quarrel and for Orys to bring one of _them_ to her home would not have soothed her temper. Davos would not understand. For him the dragons were a novelty.

_He knows not what devastation they bring._

Davos fled from her unwanted fussing, intent on being in the yard to greet his lord father. Argella watched him leave feeling a tightness in her chest. He grew so quickly. It would not be long before Aegon expected him to fight. She knew he would go willingly too and it pained her. She did not wish to be without him but her family were warriors long before the Targaryen’s fought their war. Still, she missed the time when she could hold him and ease his hurts. Even her youngest was no longer a baby now.

She waited only a moment longer before following him, holding her head high. When she reached the yard Davos was waiting impatiently. Argella stood with him. Even though he rarely saw his father, Argella knew Davos admired him greatly. He spoke of his father as a great man, a man who stood by the side of the King.

 _You are my little king_ , she wanted to tell him. _You would be Storm King if not for Aegon._

She knew she must hold her tongue. If anybody were to hear her it would be deemed treason. She did not trust those in the castle not to inform on her. Orys would forgive her but Aegon might not. Even if Aegon were to overlook it, Visenya bore a grudge like no other.

She waited for Orys to enter through the gates, uncertain as to how she might greet him. She expected she knew how he might greet her. _He will want to forget our quarrel._ He appeared distracted when he drew close. Davos moved to his side at the first invitation, gazing out the gates clearly still hoping for a glimpse of the thankfully absent dragons. Orys fidgeted and Argella saw he now wore a false hand.

“I hope you are well my lady.”

Argella stood a little straighter. “I am well enough my lord.”

Orys gave her a wary look but she refrained from speaking of anything unpleasant. _It will wait until we might speak privately._ Instead they discussed household matters and Argella listened and walked with them as Davos eagerly asked questions about the city under construction and about Aegon and the dragons. He looked disappointed when Argella finally gave him instructions and sent him to the kitchens.

“You are still wroth with me,” Orys observed.

“Not as much as I might be,” she replied. “I have heard word you retain your title.”

Orys looked uncomfortable. “I have been given the power to speak with the King’s voice. It is an honour.”

“The Hand of the King,” Argella frowned. “Is he making mock? Does it amuse him to still call you Hand and have the realm laugh at his wit?”

Orys flushed and she knew she pushed him. “Guard your tongue Argella.”

“I do not say it to wound you Orys,” she said defensively. “Can you not see that it is an insult?”

She knew he was angry. She could see it even if he did not say it. Whether his anger was directed at her or Aegon she did not know.

“Aegon does not mean it as an insult. You do not know him.”

_I do not wish to know him._

Nobody knew Aegon Targaryen, not truly. Orys and Visenya were his only true companions. _He calls Orys his friend when everybody knows them to be brothers._ If he were to treat a brother in this way it was no wonder he did not have friends.

_Orys has the power to speak with the King’s voice._

The power her husband had been given did not surprise Argella. She knew Aegon rarely took command. That fell to his sisters (now only Visenya) and Orys.

“You do more to govern the realm than he does,” she said haughtily. “You are King in all but name.”

Orys tensed. “Do not let anybody hear that my lady. I am no King.”

Argella knew he referred to his bastard birth but he also meant more than that. There were words unspoken between them since that day he killed her father and took her castle. Aegon made certain to name her only the Lady of Storm’s End. Orys did not think of himself as King.

_He wishes to say I am no queen._

He thought it but he was wrong. Her father raised her as a princess and Argella still retained her pride. Orys reached for her hand and Argella let him take it and press his lips to her knuckles.

“I do not wish to quarrel. I would much rather hear of you and the children.”

Argella sighed. “Davos wishes to be a warrior. He is growing to be formidable.”

Orys smiled proudly. “He will make a good squire soon.”

The thought made her stomach clench. _I am going to lose him._ Davos saw little enough of Orys but Davos would follow in his footsteps still. Part of her wished to forget the insult of Orys’ title, to beg him to use his new power to keep their son safe. Then she remembered their last conversation.

_If Aegon asks it, nothing I say will matter._

“He is still only a boy,” she said instead.

Orys embraced her and as much as Argella detested being seen as vulnerable she accepted the affection. It had been so long. His false hand brushed clumsily against her hair.

“He will not remain a boy much longer, no matter how much you might wish it.”

Orys sounded sadder than she might have expected. _He has missed so much in serving Aegon._ Argella ran her hand along his back.

“It is not his youth I wish for, it is his safety. You cannot promise me that.”

He sighed. “I would if I could Argella but we do what we must.”

It was very much as she expected. The rumours carrying through the realm filled her with foreboding. _War will come again._ She wanted to vent her fury but Orys was not her enemy. There were threats she realised they must face together. Argella would do what she must for her children even moreso than herself.

_They will have to fight._

Argella knew the day would come. As she stood in Orys’ embrace she made a promise to herself as much as to him.

_I will do whatever it takes to delay that day._


	5. Chapter 5 (Visenya and Maegor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr and inspired by the recent LonCon reading

Visenya knew well before she birthed him that her son would be a warrior. She just knew him to be capable of greatness. His birth only confirmed it. He made a contrast to Aenys. Maegor was bigger, stronger and he did not cry.

_He is a true Targaryen._

She did not know whether Aegon was truly blind to Rhaenys’ indiscretions or just wilfully ignorant. She left it to others to voice their suspicions. _Aenys is not born of Aegon’s seed._ Visenya mourned her sister but she decided early that her son must not suffer for the memory of one gone from this world.

Aegon did not seem to share that thought.

At first she felt relieved that he resisted the pressure to marry another. With time and after Maegor’s birth her resentment grew. Her brother kept Aenys by his side. He doted on the sickly boy. He showed favour to the child well beyond simply viewing him as his heir.

_He clings to the memory of her._

Visenya suffered through it while Rhaenys lived. She was not prepared to continue being treated as second best, to have her son viewed as less. _He is better than Aenys in every way_. She began to press Aegon to offer some acknowledgement, to see her Maegor as the son Aegon should wish for. It did not end in the result she hoped for.

“I require you to be at Dragonstone,” Aegon told her. “You may take Maegor with you.”

He no longer visited her bed but Visenya did not expect _this_. She had more pride than to protest. She did as he bid but she brooded in her ancestral home. She watched her son grow bigger and stronger still. She saw him grow into the warrior she knew from the first he would become. Her love for her brother faded little by little with each year as she heard the tales of his raising of Aenys.

_He does not want me. He wants only Rhaenys still._

Visenya could not forget the slight anymore. She could not forgive it either. She prepared her son to be everything Aenys was not and she planned.

_Maegor’s day will come._


	6. Chapter 6 (Aemon the Dragonknight)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on parts of the world of ice and fire and written in response to a tumblr prompt

Aemon’s days were long and it seemed he might die in his cage. His captors liked to tell him so, when they were not taunting him and making ribald japes about his manhood. He soon grew immune to their comments on his nakedness. He cared little for their words. The sun did far more damage than their tongues ever could.

By day he baked in the hot sun and at night the cold wind bit into him. His skin burned and blistered, adding to the wounds he already bore. His lips were beyond chapped and his tongue so dry that swallowing was at times an arduous task. Aemon did not ask for water. The Wyls were men without honour. Making a request of them only gave them the opportunity to deny it. He had learned that quickly.

_I must wait until they offer or go without._

Aye, Aemon thought often about his death. It seemed only right. His King had died, his cousin Daeron. Three of Aemon’s brothers of the kingsguard fell doing their duty to protect him. The Wyls were not the only men without honour in Dorne. Aemon seethed over the betrayal which had led him to his current fate. He wished he had killed more of them before they took him captive. He wished he had died with his sword in hand, a warrior’s death avenging his King, not that of a prisoner to that same King’s betrayers.

He changed his mind when he remembered Naerys. Naerys needed him. His brother Aegon did not need him but Aemon wanted to live for him too. He wanted to live to thwart the worst of his brother’s follies, to protect Aegon from himself. His father would not leave him to die in Dorne, Aemon did not doubt.  At that very moment his father might be readying men for another assault, preparing to bring Fire and Blood to those who had murdered the King under the guise of peace.

The first sign that this was not the case was the laughter.

The second was the japes, claims about his cousin Baelor that Aemon could scarcely believe.

The proof came when Baelor himself arrived clad only in sackcloth. Aemon feared that he simply gaped at his cousin at first. He was so shocked at the condition of the new King. Baelor’s feet were bare, cracked and bleeding. He appeared very thin, ever more so than before. Aemon knew that his cousin was odd. He knew Baelor was pious to the extreme. Aegon liked to laugh about it and to jape at Baelor’s expense.

_Baelor never should have come here._

Aemon watched in bewilderment when instead of warning Lord Wyl of retribution, his cousin began to _plead_. Aemon knew what the outcome would be. These were not men to plead with.

“I beg of you,” Baelor began in his thin, reedy voice. “In the name of the Father, please release my cousin Aemon. He will do you no further harm. I have come alone to sue for peace.”

Aemon was surprised Lord Wyl did not laugh in Baelor’s face. He was not surprised when Lord Wyl refused.

_Leave now Baelor_ , he thought to himself. _Leave now and return with an army._

“Pray for your royal cousin,” Lord Wyl demanded. “Pray and promise to return here after you finish your walk to Sunspear.”

Aemon stifled his curse as Baelor began to pray. He scowled at his cousin, at his King as Baelor made the promise. Aemon remained a member of the Kingsguard. He would serve until his death and so he said nothing of his thoughts. He did not tell Baelor that he was a fool but inside he was screaming. He watched as his cousin left him in his cage and continued along the Boneway.

_Baelor will die before he reaches Sunspear._

_I am going to die in this cage._

He resigned himself to his fate.


	7. Get Lucky (Davos/Marya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for round 11 of the got_exchange
> 
> Prompt: Davos going home for the first time after Storm's End and having to tell his wife that his smuggling operation went incredibly well and he lost a few fingers but he's a knight now and their lives are about to get awesome.

Davos walked through the unpaved alleys of Flea Bottom, drinking in the familiar sights and sounds and smells. The pot-shops were all still there, the people selling bowl o’ brown keeping watch with dull eyes. The stench of pigsties and stables filled the air and Davos sidestepped an object hurled from a window above. It was not meant for him. The whore shouted from above at the fleeing customer.

 

_This will not be the future for my family._

 

The buildings almost touched when he entered the last alley, the one he searched for.  The end of his fingers hurt and Davos held up his hand to look at it. The first joint on each finger was still missing, just as he knew it would be. They might hurt but they were gone. He felt for the pouch around his neck.

 

_They are still with me, it was just and now they are my luck._

 

He pushed open the familiar wooden door, welcomed by the sound of children at play. They stopped and looked at him, no recognition in their eyes, It did not surprise Davos, he had been gone too long for the babes to remember him. The woman who emerged from the rear of the building was another matter. Her face lit up when she saw him.

 

“Davos!”

 

Davos stepped forward to meet her, preparing himself for her reaction. Marya did not appear to see. She greeted him far more affectionately than he felt he deserved. Davos returned her embrace. Her hands were warm when she touched his face. Her smile trembled a little, betraying emotion. The kiss she bestowed on him gave him a reminder of all he had longed for while away.

 

“I have missed you.”

 

Her tone contained no accusation. _She is a good woman._ Marya began to check him over just as she always did on his return. It was when he tried to stop her that his shortened fingers made themselves known. Her eyes widened as she gazed upon them.

 

“We always knew the risks,” he offered. “Lord Stannis might have taken my head instead.”

 

Marya frowned. He saw her dart a glance at the boys and she led him into another room. Davos wondered what she had heard of him. It was known that Lord Robert won the battle on the Trident. Lord Robert was crowned but Lord Stannis remained besieged until Lord Eddard Stark arrived. Davos had no way to tell Marya of the turn his smuggling took.

 

“Tell me husband,” she prompted him when they were alone.

 

Davos held nothing back. Marya listened patiently while he told her of the siege and of his role. She chided him a little from time to time. She did so in good nature though her frown returned more than once. Davos felt his guilt resurface upon seeing her worry. When he reached the part of the story where Stannis spoke of the good Davos did not washing away his crimes she shook her head.

 

“You did him a service Davos. You best keep away from these high lords if that is their idea of justice.”

 

Davos could not help but smile. “It was just Marya. The punishment was just and you have not heard me tell it all. Lord Stannis did punish me for my crimes but he also rewarded me for my service.” He removed the pouch just this one time and made her take it. She did so hesitantly. “Those joints have bought us a future.”

 

Marya clutched the pouch in her hand. She looked from it to him but her expression was wary.

 

“What sort of future is bought with fingers?”

 

Davos laid his hands over hers, even if she did give the maimed one a hard look.

 

“Stannis knighted me. I am now Ser Davos Seaworth. Our House even has a sigil. It is a black ship with an onion on its sails.”

 

As grieved as she still appeared Marya laughed. Her laughter always made him laugh too and this was no exception. When they composed themselves once again Davos took the pouch back from her. He hung it back around his neck and patted it once more.

 

“I am not just a knight,” he told her. “I am a landed knight. Stannis granted me land on Cape Wrath. We will make a new home. Our sons will be squires and knights. They will be honoured in a way they might never have known.” He repeated his earlier claim. “Lord Stannis is a just man.”

 

The frown began to lift from Marya’s face.

 

“You will no longer be a smuggler?”

 

Davos shook his head. “Stannis wants to keep me as his advisor. He gave me a warship.”

 

He waited for Marya to adjust. She sat on the bed quite heavily. They had a ritual whenever he returned. She always looked him over, fussed over him and fed him. Marya always insisted he did not eat well while away from her. Often it was true. This time it was especially true, She did not move from her place for some time. When she did rise, she took hold of his maimed hand and pressed her lips to it.

 

“Supper can wait Davos.”

 

He was going to ask what it waited for but Marya answered the question for him with more kisses. He followed her to the bed.

 

“Let us make another son,” she told him. “We can afford to now.”

 

Davos could not disagree with her. He touched the pouch once more.

 

_They have brought me luck._ Looking upon Marya he felt it even more. _I am a lucky man._


	8. Chapter 8 (Davos Baratheon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to a prompt asking for a drabble about Argella and Orys' firstborn. I know we don't know that Davos is the firstborn but I decided to settle for having him be the eldest given I am working with limited information.

Davos did not remember his father before he lost his hand. He had been so young when Lord Orys left him and his lady mother to join the war in Dorne. When he returned his hand was gone and it seemed that when the Dornish took his hand they took his smiles as well. That was what those in the castle said.

“Lord Orys has grown bitter,” they whispered quietly but not so quietly that Davos did not hear.

That was not all they whispered. Some said earlier that Lord Orys murdered King Argilac. They whispered that losing his hand might be justice but that did not make sense. Aegon was king and Davos’ father was his man. He wanted to ask his mother but his mother did not like to speak of kings. His mother did not like King Aegon.

“Your grandfather died in the war,” the maester told him when he asked. “He faced your father in single combat.”

“Why would he do that?” Davos asked. “He must have known father would win.”

The maester nodded as if to agree with Davos. He did not offer an answer.

“Do not speak of this to your lady mother.”

He wondered that his mother did not hate his father. Davos thought he might hate the man who killed his father. He did not like to think on that. He did not want to think of his father dying even if he had grown bitter. His lady mother did not seem to want to think of it either. He heard her speak sharply to his father.

“Gods Orys, will you let them take your spine as well?”

He did not hear his father answer and his lady mother saw him and when she stood and gathered her skirts, looking as though she might scold him he saw his father too. Lord Orys did not look bitter now. Lord Orys just looked very sad.

“You know better than this Davos,” she chided him as she sent him to his chambers.

When she came to see him later he summoned his courage.

“Do you hate father?” he asked, determined to understand what the maester had told him.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “What would make you ask that?”

Davos did not know how to answer so he lowered his eyes. His lady mother had a fearsome temper. Their house words were Ours is the Fury and Lady Argella was proof that they were not just words. It had been difficult for her with his lord father away and her fury had shown more than once. She was rarely angry with him but Davos did not wish to give her reason.

“I hated him once,” she confessed and Davos raised his eyes to look at her. “I hate him no longer.”

“What changed mother?”

Lady Argella smiled. Davos loved her smiles. His lady mother was beautiful with her black hair and blue eyes, features Davos shared with her. She pushed his hair back from his brow gently.

“I birthed you and your siblings.”

He thought on that and it seemed a stupid reason but even if it was stupid Davos was glad. He did not want his mother to hate his father. His father was a great warrior, everybody said so and Davos wanted to be a warrior like him when he was a man grown. He would fight alongside his father and they would win great battles. He wanted to tell his father but he did not know him very well.

The time to ask a question came when he saw his father watch him in the yard. Davos begged the leave of the master at arms and approached his father hesitantly.

“Can you not still be a warrior with the hand you have left father?”

Lord Orys’ face twitched. He did not answer immediately but when he did he spoke gently.

“Mayhaps I can Davos.”

Davos did not want the answer to be _mayhaps_ but he supposed it was better than _no_. Davos decided he hated the Dornish for what they had done. If not for them his father would be whole. His father would be the warrior everybody spoke of and they would not say he was bitter. They would not dare speak against him at all.

It took time for him to see the people in the castle were not entirely right. It took time for Davos to hear his father laugh. He followed the sound and saw Lord Orys with his mother. She was scolding him but in that way that suggested she was not truly wroth and his father was smiling. Lord Orys might smile rarely now but he still smiled. He just kept those smiles for Davos’ mother.

Sometimes he even smiled for Davos too. That was when Davos realised Lord Orys might be bitter but he was not bitter with _them_. He was bitter at everybody else. He was bitter at those who mocked him for the loss of his hand. He was bitter at the king and he was bitter at the Dornish.

It made Davos _angry,_ angry like his mother and he vowed that one day they would know _his_ fury. On the day his lord father made the Dornish pay Davos would be there.


	9. Chapter 9 (Benjen Stark)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: A moment between Arya and Benjen? Maybe in one of his visits or something? I don't care if it's cute, if it's some angsty moment of Benjen thinking of Lyanna or if he sees Arya and Jon and says something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a couple of weeks ago and put it on tumblr but forgot to upload it here. Better late than never

Benjen has always known that Jon is Lyanna’s son. He knew Ned too well to believe the lie even if he did not know anything else. They did not speak of it. Benjen took his own secrets to the Wall with him and there he hoped to assuage the guilt he felt, to try to keep the ghosts in the past. It seemed to work after a fashion.

Those who serve on the Wall serve for life and so he rarely leaves. He knows Ned has children but he tries not to think on it too much. He must focus on his duty and the path he has chosen. He will not marry and will father no sons. He will serve and it seems only right that he must serve, must do something for the realm that has suffered so much.

When he arrives at Winterfell on one of those very rare absences from the Wall he sees Robb first. Ned’s eldest does not look like a Stark. Nor does sweet Sansa have the Stark look with her shining Tully auburn hair. The youngest present, Brandon, steps forward and the name sends a knife into his heart but the boy is not Brandon and he finds he can put those memories aside and greet his nephew the way an uncle should.

It is on the tip of his tongue to ask after Jon but then he remembers the lie. Ned’s lady wife emerges with the babe in her arms and Benjen smiles for her and offers the jape he knows is expected because he has always been known for his smiles and japes and Ned’s children must be spared the pain of the past.

He is walking with Ned through the castle grounds when he sees them. Jon is quiet and so very like Ned that Benjen can almost fool himself, almost make himself believe the lie. It is the girl that undoes him.

“Arya,” Ned calls out. “Where have you been? You did not greet your Uncle Ben.”

The girl lifts her head and her expression is guilty. She still has a smile for Jon and she has been picking flowers and that makes it even worse. She darts forward, all scraped knees and wild messy hair and Benjen’s chest feels tight but his throat is even tighter and he does not know how he might speak.

“I am sorry I missed your arrival Uncle Ben,” she says with a glance at Ned as though fearing a rebuke.

Ned is smiling at his daughter and Benjen does not know how he cannot _see_ , how he can look at the little girl in front of them without thinking of Lyanna. Jon joins them and the bond between the two is so obvious, the way Arya looks to him. In that moment Benjen is glad he serves Castle Black because to be in Winterfell and see this every day would be a special kind of torture.

_I would not be able to forget._

Arya thrusts the flowers at him and it is all he can do to take them. He offers her a smile and her face lights up at the simple gesture of picking one of the blooms for her to keep. She must only be all of seven but Benjen still remembers his sister’s smile and the way she called him Ben. The smile is the same, as is the scowl and the way she proclaims Jon to be _stupid_ when he musses her hair.

“I’m getting too big for that,” she announces but Benjen can see she is not truly angered.

“You’re still a lot smaller than me little sister,” Jon replies. “You will never be too big.”

Benjen looks to Ned and sees the sadness in his brother’s eyes and that is when he knows. _He sees it too._ They leave the children to their play and he tries to hold his tongue and fails.

“For a moment there I might have thought Winterfell had a ghost.”

“She is very like Lyanna,” Ned admits solemnly, “but thank the gods it will not end the same.”

Benjen thinks upon it. There are painful memories but if he pushes those aside there are good ones as well and he knows he must draw upon those when he looks at his niece.

_Mayhaps the gods have granted a second chance._


	10. Chapter 10 (Orys/Argella)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic to fill a prompt from VVSIGNOFTHECROSS: Orys x Argella after the Vulture Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took me forever to write. Better late than never I suppose

Orys was no longer her husband by the time he left her to pursue the Vulture King. That was what she told herself. He was consumed with revenge, bitter and crabbed. He was not the man she wed, that was certain. Argella had not wanted that man, had not wanted to give him rule over Storm’s End, no matter how gently he spoke to her. Storm’s End was the seat of the Durrandon’s.

_I am the last Durrandon._

The blood of the Durrandon’s ran strong in her sons, however. They had her look, the blue eyes, not Orys’ black ones. They had her hair too, no matter that Orys hair was black too. They were of his seed and they had his name but they were Durrandon’s, even if she could never speak of it. She took pride in defying the dragonlords in this way. They had wed her to Aegon’s champion, the man who killed her father but they could not breed out the Durrandon blood.

_See father_ , she thought to herself.  _We are not defeated after all._

Orys would die fighting the Dornish. She thought that might bring her peace. She raged against him taking Davos, letting Orys feel the force of her house words, words he had taken as his own but never lived by. He never showed fury, not truly. Even her shouting at him only had him looking at her dully, his jaw set in a way which told Argella he would not give in, that he would take their son.

_My son._

“The boy wants to go,” Orys told her.

He was right of course. That only made the sting worse.  _Orys will die._  She felt no satisfaction and wondered why. Orys received the reports, he was Lord and she only his Lady but Argella knew the numbers, she knew the odds. The Vulture King had thirty thousand followers and her husband lacked his sword hand. It still would not keep him from a fight, Argella knew that of him.

_He lacks fury but he was never a coward._

He left with an air of grim determination, though not without bedding her one last time. She wondered that he did not tire of the struggle of wills, even if she had learned to enjoy this part of him. He searched her face as he said farewell.

“See that you do not return until they pay for this,” she told him, brushing her fingers over the cuff on the sleeve which would have covered his sword hand.

“You need not fear on that account my lady,” he told her, almost warmly.

She had tears in her eyes as she watched them go.  _Tears for Davos,_ she thought. In their absence she would be all but Lord of Storm’s End, receiving the reports as was her right, as it always should have been. Never mind that it was only because her next son was too young, that it was on Orys orders that the men looked to her and must answer to her. Storm’s End was the seat of the Durrandon’s once more, even if only for a time.

_The host has been split,_ she read.  _Lord Orys has achieved many victories._

She was exulting before she even realised she was. They were calling it the Vulture Hunt. It was a stupid name, even if it was an accurate one. Argella wanted the Vulture King dead. If the Durrandon’s lost their rights to be kings, this outlaw certainly had no right to the title. She would be glad to hear he died by her husband’s hand.

_He is good at killing kings, my Orys._

More good news followed and Argella ordered the ravens brought directly to her.

_The rebels are in retreat. We are hunting them down. It will not be long my lady._

Orys sounded almost his old self. Victory now seemed certain and Argella tossed the parchment aside, longing for the safe return of her son. The next raven contained the news she hoped for, at least in part.

_Lord Orys has gained a victory at Stonehelm and exacted vengeance on House Wyl. He marches for Storm’s End._

Her son would return. Her husband lived and Argella would be Lady of Storm’s End once more, her power diminished again. The knowledge grated and she cursed Orys as she always did whenever she was reminded of the fall of her house. She cursed Aegon more but her husband was not spared her wrath because he was the one she saw each day, he was the visible reminder.

She waited for the return of the Stormlands army, Davos met her first, his blue eyes, Durrandon eyes, tired even if he smiled when he saw her.

“Mother.”

Something was wrong, she knew it at once.

“Tell me,” she said, quick to anger if Orys had kept something from her, something she had a right to know. She would make him sorry he returned, sorry that he lived if her son had been harmed in some way. She tried to check him over but Davos resisted.

“Mother I have hard news.”

“Is Orys still bitter?” she asked. “Will he never be pleased? Tell me of this Wyl. All I have heard of from him is Wyl’s for years, I have a right to know how he treated with them.”

Her son hesitated.

“Father captured Wyl’s son,” he said in a halting voice. Argella urged Davos on. “He took his sword hand and both feet too. Usury, he called it.”

_So he does have fury in him after all._

“Where is he?” she asked. “He will want to see me, even if I scold him. I must scold him for keeping you from me so long.”

_He will want me, he always wants me._

“Mother,” Davos said it gently this time.

Gentleness was not right, Argella did not want gentleness. Gentle treatment made her think of Orys as she first met him, removing her chains, giving her wine, having his maester tend to her hurts. Durrandon’s were not gentle, she did not want gentle.

“Was he pleased?” she asked. “Tell me he was happy at least.”

“He smiled,” Davos whispered. “He was smiling when he passed.”

Argella wept.

 


	11. Chapter 11: Sansa and Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt: the Starklings outside/having a snowball fight

Sansa stepped out from the keep. The air was crisp from the summer snow and she breathed it in. Father had told them this was nothing when Bran looked out at it with wide eyes, that they were summer children.

“Winter is coming,” he had said, “Then you will truly see snow.”

He had said it with a smile though, not the way he usually said their house words. He had said it as Father, not as Lord Stark.

Her remembering was interrupted by something hitting her in the back. It knocked the breath out of her and left her feeling cold. Laughter sounded behind her and Sansa whirled around.

“You rotten,” she began to say.

They pelted her with more snowballs before she could finish. Bran was on the roof of the covered bridge, high above the ground just as he almost always was. Always climbing and out of her reach. Sansa could do nothing but scowl at him as he laughed but Arya was much closer.

“You’ll be sorry,” Sansa told her and she began to run.

Arya hooted and dropped one of the snowballs in her hands, darting away as Sansa pursued her. They ran and ran, through the stables and around the kitchen. Sansa was cross, cross until she began to gain on her sister, just as she knew she would. Arya was quick but Sansa had longer legs and she was older. She almost caught her… until her foot slipped out from under her.

It was only a moment before Arya was back.

“Sansa?” she sounded worried. “Are you hurt?”

Sansa shifted a little.

“I don’t think so.”

The snowball hit her in the forehead and Sansa shrieked as the melting snow slid down her face. She caught Arya by the leg, determined to stop her getting away this time.

“It’s your turn,” she said, rubbing snow in her sister’s hair.

Arya was laughing and Sansa could not help but laugh too. They might be summer children and she knew Septa Mordane might frown but Father always said summer was time for laughter and childish games.


	12. Daenys

The dreams start when Daenys is only a child. She thinks they are only dreams at first, vivid and disturbing but nothing more. It is when she dreams the same things over and over that she knows they mean something. She tells Gaemon first and he laughs at her.

“You eat too many sweets before bed,” he teases.

Her mother sighs, and tells her she is too much of a dreamer, that she must put stock in matters known to be real. Daenys tries, she really does, but the dreams do not stop. She makes the mistake of telling other children and they laugh at her, far more cruelly than Gaemon did.

And then one of her dreams comes true.

Father is injured. It is not serious, but she sees her mother frown and knows she remembers Daenys worrying. Her father is more scholar than warrior, and he has never enjoyed flying like other dragonlords but he has never slipped before. Daenys feels as though her world is being shattered into tiny pieces.

“Do not fret sweetling,” her father tells her when she sits by his bed. “This will heal.”

He does not know, does not understand that this is only the beginning. Daenys cries, and even though her mother asked her not to disturb her father with tales of the dreams she tells him. Aenar Targaryen does not sigh, and he does not laugh, and he does not tease.

He believes her and Daenys loves him for it.

“Tell me of these dreams,” he says gently, a quill in hand poised to write down her words.

Daenys tells him all. She tells him of the small things, the dreams that do not disturb her sleep much and then she hesitates. She only tells him the worst when he prods it out of her.

“I dream of fire,” she whispers. “I dream of destruction and death. I dream of the end of all of us.”

He writes it all down, all the images and details. He is quiet as he does so and then he takes Daenys’ hand.

“You were right to tell me. I will take us from here. We will live by the sea, far from the fire and far from the doom you dream of.”

That night Daenys sleeps, and dreams, but she no longer fears, not so much as she did. Her father will keep them safe. He had faith in her and he showed faith in her dreams and Daenys would repay that by trusting that he would make everything right.


	13. Orys/Argella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: tender

Argella is naked again. It is not the same but it does feel the same. She has been stripped, just as her own men stripped her. The chains are still there, not visible chains but Argella is chained nonetheless. The door opens behind her as she reaches for something to cover herself. There is laughter, laughter and japes and she hears Orys respond before the door closes and then they are alone.

“Will you want wine my lady?”

He is courteous, her new husband. She watches him as he moves to the side table and begins to pour. Argella thinks she hates him still, will always hate him but she hates those currently sitting in her hall even more. Aegon and his sisters are there, celebrating their victory over House Durrandon once more. Argella cannot bear Rhaenys’ presence, not after she gave that woman her word and her own men took that from her, shamed her in front of this queen.

_She smiles prettily, but she looks down on me._

Argella clutches the cloak around her with one hand and extends the other to accept the wine. Orys is naked and seems unabashed by it. She supposes he has known other women.

“You wear my cloak.”

It is another reminder. He cloaked her then, covering her nakedness. He also gave her wine then and she drank deeply from the cup, much as she was doing now.

“It is _my_ cloak my lord,” she says sharply. “It bears my sigil.”

Her words wound him, she sees that at once. Argella does not know why he is wounded by her. Surely he has heard worse but now he turns away from her, drinking from his own cup. The image is not unpleasant as she looks upon his rear. He is powerfully built and muscled from his training. He turns suddenly and Argella knows he saw her looking.

“The duty need not be unpleasant,” he says.

Orys seems to have forgotten his hurt already. He is looking into her face but his eyes drop and Argella tries to tug the cloak around her, to better cover herself. She flushes, but she can see he is flushed too. He had not looked at her nakedness before, he had averted his eyes, covering her and the look he gave her men… Argella had expected him to be pleased but he wasn’t.

_He was disgusted. He saw it for what it was, a betrayal._

He looks away now.

“I did not ask this.”

That stung. He had killed her father and taken her castle. Aegon rejected her as a bride but a Durrandon princess was a prize. Argella had no lack of suitors before the war. Was Orys saying he did not want her? A _bastard_ did not want a Durrandon? She lets the cloak drop and stalks to the side table to set her cup down. He stares at her and when she ventures a glance down she sees his manhood has stiffened. She feels triumph for a moment.

“You may not have asked it but it seems you _do_ want it.”

She turns to face him and his hands are on her. Argella tenses but it is not like her men. Orys’ touch is gentle, as it had been in their first meeting. _I will not hurt you,_ he had said that day when he removed her chains. He wears the same expression now as he looks into her face, only his eyes are darker, somehow even blacker. His fingers caress her hair, and his other hand runs down her arm.

“Aye,” he says. “I do want it.”

He kisses her brow, softly and Argella tries to relax. His touch is tender and it is true, the duty need not be unpleasant. It was her duty, he was her husband now. He would not hurt her, she did believe that. His mouth is firm against hers and Argella does not yield at first, letting him see that he has not won, not truly. He might have her, but only if she wishes it.

“Argella.”

The way he says her name and the feel of his hands on her skin makes her wish it, just a little. He keeps pausing, hesitating, and Argella sees that he wants her approval. He is odd, her new husband. He wishes to please Aegon, and he wishes to please her, and he cannot do both. Argella will see to that. The thought gives her power, to think that Aegon’s champion cares if she wants what Aegon has thrust upon her.

She grins at the wordplay in her head and it makes Orys bolder and she discovers that she does like him bold.

_I will not learn to love my chains._

She does not intend to let them remain chains at all.


	14. Stannis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: righteous
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr

Stannis paced, struggling with his decision. His jaw ached he had clenched it so hard. He had a duty, but he had more than one duty. He had a duty to his liege, a duty to his brother.

_Aerys is king._

Stannis knew his duty to the king should come first. The kings word was law, and laws must be upheld but what Aerys had done…. it was not just. There was no rule of law with Aerys.

 _My blood or my liege._   _My brother or my king._

It was a hard choosing. Robert loved him little, and Stannis felt the same. Robert preferred Ned Stark, and now the king had demanded both of them. Aerys demanded Jon Arryn give him Robert, and that was not just.

 _The throne rejects him._ The fools all said it, that Aerys was cut so often that it was a sign. They took it to mean Aerys should not be king. Stannis snorted at that. The Iron Throne was ribbons of twisted steel, jagged ends of swords. If a man sat on such a seat he was bound to be cut.

He continued pacing. Stannis was a righteous man. People often said so. What would a righteous man do?

_He would do what is just._

It was a hard choosing and he did so still doubting. But Stannis had made his choice.


	15. Nymeria of Ny Sar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: sunbaking

Nymeria liked to sit by the river and watch her people. It was bittersweet in truth. This river was not at all like the Rhoyne, not at all but still she looked out over it. The sun baked her skin as she did, and even the sheerest of silks did not keep her cool.

Mors thought it was not good for her though he did not say so. She could tell by the way he looked at her, and his attempts to urge her away. She heard him approach and saw his smile.

“If you wish to expose yourself to the sun I can think of more enjoyable ways to do so.”

Nymeria snorted. She had been confused at first by the way the Westerosi referred to themselves as their sigils, but no longer.

“Later,” she told him.

His touch was light on her arm.

“Not too much later I hope.”

She kept her eyes on the water, even though his touch felt cool and she knew her skin was beginning to burn.

“Just a little longer.”

The children laughed and Nymeria closed her eyes, thinking of home.


	16. Argella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: How Dare You

The gates were barred. Argella made sure of it. She was not unafraid, but she would not give into the dragons. She was a Durrandon, descended from kings and she would not bend the knee to these invaders. She was of the blood and seed of Durran Godsgrief, and the Durrandons had not bent the knee to any invaders. They withstood the Andal invasion. House Durrandon was not going kneel now either.

_I would rather die._

The crown felt heavy on her head as she declared herself queen. The dragon came, as she knew it would and when the Targaryen invader flew in to parley, Argella held her head high as she faced this would-be queen.

“We will not bend the knee,” she declared. “We will die to the last man.”

It was a promise she intended to keep. Rhaenys Targaryen looked doubtful, and Argella’s temper flared as the Targaryen woman looked to her men rather than her.

“Are you really so determined to die?”

“You may take my castle,” Argella insisted. “But you will win only bones and blood and ashes.”

Rhaenys gave her an appraising look, cast another glance around the castle and left. Argella waited, proud at the least because her father had sworn he would never give in, and Argella had kept his word with her own promise. When her door opened and she saw the chains she did not understand at first.

“I am your queen,” she told them.

They paid her no mind, as if she had not spoken at all. She tried to back away, to struggle as they laid hands on her.

“How dare you,” she screamed.

She had been their princess, but it did not stop them stripping her naked. It did not stop them chaining her, gagging her to stop her accusing them of treason, of treachery. She still accused them, silently, with her gaze and they did not look at her as they delivered her to the invaders.

 _How dare you,_ she thought helplessly.

How dare they rob her of her word and of her pride.

_How dare they shame House Durrandon._


	17. Rhaegar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: total control

Rhaegar has always been studious. Bookish, they called him. It never bothered him. It was hardly a flaw to arm oneself with the knowledge one might need. It was best to know everything it was possible to know, to prepare, to be certain of the right course to take.

Rhaegar was certain of the right course to take.

He had been wrong once, but that had been before, when he did not know everything there was to know. He had not known his mother would not birth the three heads of the dragon, had not known that the cruel winter would not fall for him and his siblings to battle against, that it would be later. He had read the signs wrong but he had learned from that.

Now he was in total control. Now he read the signs right and now he knew what must be done by whatever means necessary.

_Aegon is the prince that was promised._

He and Rhaenys made two but there must be a third. A song of _ice_  and _fire_. Elia could not bear the third, that was certain. It had to be another. He put his quill to the parchment, certain as he scratched out the letters. He thought only of the prophecy, dismissing more trivial matters when they tried to disturb his thoughts.

Parchment rested by his elbow, a complaint, a plea for freedom. The girl was passionate, fierce and their child would be everything the first Visenya was. She did not understand her part yet, but she would. Rhaegar was certain.

_She wishes to be a warrior. She wishes to make Westeros a better place than it is._

Lyanna could do little by herself, but their daughter would help save them all.

And so he planned, every action prepared and deliberate. Everything that mattered accounted for, everything that was needed to fulfil the prophecy. It was the right course. Others would not understand, not yet, but time would prove him right.

_The dragon must have three heads._

He need only bring that about and history would take care of the rest.


	18. Hoster Tully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: How Dare You

Hoster is struggling to keep his temper but if anything warrants his anger it is this.

“How dare you.”

Petyr Baelish does not look cowed at all. He looks like a boy who has been stealing sweets, not sorry he took them but sorry he has been caught.

“Cat wasn’t-”

“I am speaking of Lysa,” Hoster says coldly. “I will hear none of your lies about Catelyn.”

There is defiance in Petyr’s gray-green eyes. Hoster has known this boy for years, how did he not see what he was earlier?

“You will go back to the Fingers. You will go and you will never come back.”


	19. Lysa Tully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: trembling hands

Lysa holds the vial with trembling hands. It almost spills, almost but she manages to pour it into the wine. She looks at her husband, unsure for a moment.

_He is an old man. I never wanted him, never._

He has always been cold, not like her Petyr. Petyr smiles at her warmly. He smiles and he is so clever.

_If I do this I will have Petyr. He promised, and I have waited so long._

She takes the wine to Jon, her hands still trembling but her lord husband doesn’t even seem to notice. Lysa shouldn’t be surprised.

_He never took notice of me. Why would he change now?_

It would all be different with Petyr. It would be just as it was always meant to be.


	20. Ned Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: silent rage

The corpses of Elia Martell and Rhaegar’s children still lay where Lord Tywin had presented them for Robert, still wrapped up in Lannister colours. Jon knew instantly there would be trouble. It was gruesome yes, but there was more than that. He looked at the men who had been his wards, boys who had been like sons to him. They now opposed one another in a way they never had before.

“It is murder.”

Ned’s voice was quiet, but that struck Jon all the more. His expression was stern, unyielding. Robert had looked away from the bodies but he was not looking away now. His face reddened.

“It is war.”

Jon tried to intervene.

“It was ill done,” he conceded. “Dorne will need to be placated.”

Ned only looked more obstinate and in the face of that Robert became more visibly angered.

“Have you forgotten what Rhaegar did? What Aerys did?”

“Never,” Ned insisted. “But Rhaenys and Aegon were no more than babes, they were innocent.”

Robert only became redder.

“I see no babes. Only dragonspawn.”

Jon stepped between the two of them, putting a hand on each. They had been like brothers, these two who were now almost at each other’s throats. It would not do, not after what they had been through.

“Ned, Robert, we must not fight among ourselves. The realm will need us to work together, to bind up the wounds which still bleed.”

Ned pulled away from him, his courtesy cold. He did not shout, or raise a hand. It was nonetheless obvious he was enraged, a silent rage. He turned on his heel.

“You heard our new king,” he said coldly. “It is war. There are still battles to be fought.”

Ned left that very day, deaf to Jon’s counsel and Robert did not try to stop him. They were both convinced they were right and unable to find any middle ground, no matter how much Jon tried. He knew then that it would fall to him to help see that the realm healed from the war.

_Gods please do not let us fail before we have even begun._


	21. Aegon the Conqueror

_The dragon has three heads._

Aegon heard the prophecy as a boy, one of many his ancestor Daenys dreamed. He did not dwell on it much then. He was a solitary boy, his head full of a different kind of dreams though he did excel at his lessons. Prophecies held little charm for him but he didn’t forget it. It would be unwise to ignore any of Daenys’ dreams, it was her dreams which saved his family from the doom.

Visenya frowned at the words, Rhaenys laughed but Aegon would remember.

*

“The dragon has three heads,” he told his father, unable to hide the desperate note in his voice.

It had been all he could think of. Visenya was his sister, he did love her but it was Rhaenys he wanted. Rhaenys was all he had ever wanted from the time she flowered. He would wed his elder sister, he would not insult her by rejecting her but he wanted Rhaenys too. He had tried everything to convince his father, everything, this was his last hope.

Aerion Targaryen was silent for a long while.

“There have been no signs.”

Aegon knew his father was right. There had been no bleeding star. He was not the one of prophecy, he was not vain enough to think it. That did not stop him remembering the words, turning them over in his head now.

“The saviour will be born of my line,” he said with certainty. “They will be of our blood. They will need more than the prophecy to understand what is needed”

His father was slow to answer. Finally he nodded.

“You want to live the words.”

Live the words was not exactly his intent but he agreed, anything if it meant he could wed Rhaenys. It wasn’t until after he won his father’s consent, after he was wed that he realised his role, that his impulsive thought had merit. He and his sisters had three dragons between them and their union could be a history lesson that would last hundreds of years, long enough for the prophesied one to still remember them.

_The dragon has three heads._

Aegon _would_ bring life to those words.

*

People thought him ambitious, some thought him vain, upjumped, a warlord. What they thought mattered little. His plan had been a success. He and his sisters now ruled Westeros, all of it but Dorne and they could not resist for long. Aegon did not take joy in the battles, in the war but the outcome did satisfy him. Nobody would forget.

“We must have a sigil for our House.”

Visenya curled her lip as if to argue. Rhaenys nodded and answered first.

“They will accept our rule better if we appear to embrace some of their customs.”

That was not his reason but Rhaenys would laugh at him if he told her his true reason. Visenya would not laugh, Visenya believed too strongly in magic to laugh but still he held his tongue. He took on the Faith of the Seven, not for his own acceptance, but to ease the path of his descendant who would need to rule the people, who would need them to listen and to follow when the time came. He expected they would have friends, mayhaps more than him. He only had Orys, truly. Orys was the only friendship he needed but the prophesied one would need more.

The seamstress did not question his order and his sisters were by his side when he unfurled the banner, the red three headed dragon on a black field. Rhaenys clapped her hands, pleased with it and Visenya met his gaze, suspicion in her eyes. She nodded.

“The Targaryen sigil, from this day forth,” he announced.

Aegon watched as those gathered cheered. He saw the banner replicated, spreading across the realm, flying proudly wherever he went. Everybody knew it, the old and young alike. Everybody knew what it meant. Three dragon riders together had achieved great things, deeds that would never be forgotten.

Three dragon riders.

He had done his part, the rest he must leave for fate, for the future. He must trust that his message would be understood.

_The dragon has three heads._


	22. Jaime and Elia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: I did a pregnancy test

Jaime stood guard at the door. A maester was within, but that was not unusual. Princess Elia had always been sickly and even more so after birthing the Princess Rhaenys. He enjoyed the change of duties with the visit of Prince Rhaegar and his wife, he had to admit. It was boring, but he preferred boring to the other, to Aerys.

“Is the princess well, Ser Jaime?”

Jaime gave Lady Ashara a smile. “I think that is a question for the maester, my lady. I took vows but mine do not allow me such close examination of the princess as his.”

She laughed, shaking her head and he watched her pass. She was beautiful with her dark hair and violet eyes but she wasn’t Cersei. Jaime resumed his boring duties, passing the time by filling his head with images of his golden twin. His imaginings did not stop him seeing the maester’s grave expression when he passed through the door to take his leave of the princess.

The man shook his head, muttering under his breath.

“This is folly,” Jaime distinctly heard.

He turned to look in the open doorway, too curious to keep watch on the empty corridor. Elia Martell was within, pale and sickly but no worse than he had seen her before. She beckoned to him.

“You may enter, Ser Jaime.”

Her smile was gentle and warm but that didn’t surprise him. The princess had always been kind and gracious. She invited him to sit. He obeyed.

“Is something wrong princess?”

Elia Martell laughed.

“I am not ill, Ser, you need not fret.”

Jaime frowned. It was not his concern but the prince had requested he protect Princess Elia and he could hardly do that if he was not informed.

“The maester-“

She waved her hand dismissively.

“It is a woman’s ailment.”

Jaime did not want to hear any more. He began to make his excuses and she laughed at him, not unkindly.

“The maester tells me I am with child.”

The maester’s expression now made sense. Jaime remembered what he had heard of Rhaeny’s birth and his thoughts went briefly to his own mother. He struggled to hold his tongue and failed.

“Is that wise?”

Elia smiled, a sad smile this time.

“Rhaegar wants three children.”

 _Three children_. This time he managed to stay silent, if only for a moment.

“If you carry a boy, he will have his heir your grace.”

Elia raised her chin and her expression became hard.

“He _has_ an heir, Ser Jaime.”

 _A daughter is not a son._ He almost said it too before he remembered Dornish custom. In Dorne Rhaenys would be heir, no matter the child Elia now carried. Her face softened once more and her hand brushed over her stomach, just gently.

“This will please Rhaegar, for a time.”

_For a time._

“The prince will not risk you princess,” he insisted. “He is fond of you.”

Elia kept her face lowered.

“As I am of him,” she whispered. “He will still want three.”

He did not know what to say to that. Jaime loved his brother but if his father had known that birthing Tyrion would take their mother he was certain he knew what Lord Tywin’s choice would be. He sat with the princess, silently, thinking thoughts he dare not share. Rhaegar would be king after Aerys, a finer king than his father for certain.

“Forgive me,” Princess Elia said suddenly. “I trouble you with matters I should not speak of.”

“You do not need my forgiveness princess,” Jaime said quickly. “It is forgotten.”

He swore he would forget it as he rose to take up his post once more. The past held enough ghosts for him. He did not intend to dwell on the possibility of new ones. He closed the door behind him, unable to quite ignore the forlorn expression on the princess when he left. He stood as he had before, filling his mind with images of Cersei once more.


	23. Sansa and Bran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr

_They are just scary stories,_  Bran tells himself as Old Nan cackles.

It has grown late, past time for bed and he reluctantly leaves his oldest siblings, walking to his chambers. _They are only stories._  Robb had said so and Old Nan had grinned a toothless grin and said “all stories come from somewhere little lord.” The thought makes Bran shiver. He is almost alone, only Sansa walks with him and she doesn’t seem scared.

 _I’m not scared either,_  he tells himself. _I’m not a baby._  Mother has a new baby and Bran is  _five_ now, and getting bigger. Soon he’ll be as big as Robb.

A door creaks as they pass and Bran jumps at the noise.

“What is it Bran?” Sansa asks.

“Just a door,” Bran says, feeling stupid.

She smiles at him and offers him her arm and Bran takes it, trying not to look into the dark and empty chamber. They seem to reach his bed chamber very quickly. He hesitates in the doorway as Sansa kisses his head and moves to leave him.

“Do you think the stories are true?” he asks in a small voice.

Sansa looks thoughtful.

“All the stories can’t be lies,” she says. “The best ones must be true, the stories of the brave knights and true heroes.”

“What about the monsters? What about the ones who come when it’s dark, like Old Nan said?”

He is afraid she’ll laugh at him but she doesn’t. Instead she bends so that her face is level with his. She looks very serious.

“The demons of the dark can’t touch you if you hide beneath your blanket.”

It fills him with hope.

“For true?” he asks.

Sansa nods. “For true.”

Bran smiles at her and even though he still feels a little jumpy he goes into his bed chamber and does just as Sansa said, pulling his blanket right over himself. It takes a while to feel sleepy and he thinks of what Sansa said, about the stories, about what Old Nan tells them of the heroes who fight the monsters.

“When I get big like Father I’m going to be a knight,” he whispers in the darkness.


	24. Sansa and Bran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr

Old Nan sat by the hearth doing her needlework. Bran was bored. His mother wanted him inside after she saw him climbing again but Arya was outside and his brothers too. It was only him and Sansa inside.

“You don’t want to fall Bran,” she said softly.

“I never fall,” Bran insisted.

“I know a story about a boy who fell,” Old Nan said.

Bran had heard the story. He was not impressed. He didn’t want to hear it again.

“I want a scary story,” he told her.

Sansa shook her head.

“Tell us about Florian and Jonquil.”

Bran didn’t want to hear about Florian and Jonquil. That was a kissing story and Sansa might like those but Bran thought they were stupid. Sansa looked at him and her face softened. She moved a little closer to him.

“You choose Bran.”

He thought for a moment. Sansa didn’t want a scary story and he didn’t want a kissing story but Old Nan had lots of stories.

“Tell us about Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. Tell us about Prince Aemon the Dragonknight.”

Old Nan looked at both of them, giving them a toothless smile.

“Oh yes,” Sansa said eagerly. “I want to hear those too.”

They both squirmed closer to her chair, watching the needles move as Old Nan sat silent for a moment.

“Some say Serwyn served in the Kingsguard,” she began, her voice dropping low so that Bran and Sansa both had to lean in close to hear. “But he lived long before that, when giants roamed the North. He was one of the First Men.”

“Like the first Starks,” Bran whispered.

Old Nan nodded but Sansa frowned.

“He can’t be one of the first men,” she argued. “He saved the Princess Daeryssa.”

“There were princesses thousands of years ago too little lady,” Old Nan said quietly. “Daeryssa was one. It suits men now to forget what once was ”

“But he saved her,” Bran asked hopefully, reaching for Sansa’s hand.

“Aye, he did.”

Sansa held his hand tightly as they both listened. Old Nan told such good stories but he hadn’t heard this one yet, not this version. It was as though Old Nan had saved it just for him and Sansa.

_We both love the stories about the heroes._

He still wanted to be outside but that could wait until after. He wanted to hear the rest, even if he already knew how it ended.

“He killed the giant,” he said eagerly.

“Of course,” Sansa agreed.

Old Nan went quiet, and for a moment Bran thought she meant to tell them they were wrong but then she smiled.

“This is the sort of story you like?”

He still liked the scary stories but he nodded, and Sansa nodded too because they could listen to this story a hundred times, especially if Old Nan told it.


End file.
